


The Hale House for Wayward Werewolves

by elisela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Firefighter Derek Hale, Foster Care, Found Family, Kid Fic, Kindergarten Teacher Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mutual Pining, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: The first time Derek sees Stiles, he’s sitting cross-legged next to a kiddie pool filled with floating plastic fish just outside the door of his classroom, clapping his hands along with the rest of the kids around him as a boy in blue reaches out with a net to scoop one up. There’s a sandbox on the other side of the door that kids are pawing through, nudging each other as they dig up magnetic letters, and through the door Derek can see the rest of the students sprawled across the room reading books.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 41
Kudos: 928





	The Hale House for Wayward Werewolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [extasiswings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/gifts).



> For my love on her birthday. I'm so glad we're friends <3

It starts with Scott.

Well, it really starts with Cora, who was lovingly referred to by Laura as a “mistake” and by their parents as “oops!”, and who was ten years Derek’s junior and a breath away from being a teenager when they died. Derek still thinks that Laura would have been a better guardian for her—he was barely twenty-three at the time and living in a cramped studio apartment over a bar—but Laura was finishing up her Master’s in Seattle with the intent on getting the hell out of the country, and Cora broke down in tears when he said something about her leaving Beacon Hills.

He’s still not sure what made him buy the house; it was probably the most run-down option he considered in the weeks after his parents passing, bleary-eyed from just getting off his twenty-four hour shift at the fire station. The yard was a wreck and it was across town from the middle school Cora was attending, but it felt right to stand in the upstairs hallway with his hands on his hips, looking down the row of doors and imagining his kids—sometime in the far off future—filling up all the bedrooms that Derek certainly didn’t need now.

It takes almost a year to fix it up, but it’s good bonding for him and Cora. Derek learns how to put down flooring, how to build and stain a deck, how to compromise on paint colors with his little sister so that he doesn't end up with a lime-green dining room.

(He maintains that one bright green accent wall is not the same and is _not_ giving in, thank you very much Laura.)

He learns how to cook, how to do laundry properly, how to buy clothes for a twelve year old girl after realizing that his mother was very right about not mixing whites and colors (Derek wears dark clothes exclusively, it’s not like this had been a problem for him before), and how to help with homework and show up at the middle school in his Camaro because it makes Cora look cool at pick-up. 

He learns, after a frankly embarrassing conversation with the nurse at Cora’s sports physical, how to get the hell over himself and buy tampons for his little sister.

Derek might not be the world’s greatest guardian, but he’s _trying_. He’s happy— _ish_ , at least—the house is finished, Cora’s going into high school, and Laura finally sounds happy when she calls from Bangkok, or Kyoto, or wherever the wind takes her that month. He’s still too young to settle down, doesn’t feel comfortable leaving Cora on her own to go out and date no matter what Laura tries to bully him into, still feels the weight of guilt from their parent’s deaths despite a year and a half of therapy. He tells Laura he’s focusing on Cora (true), and himself (true), and that he’ll make time for finding the right person when he’s back to being on his own again (true. Maybe).

And then he meets Scott.

\---

It’s not the first car accident that Derek has pulled up to since his parents died. It’s not even the first car on fire that he’s had to attend to, or the first time he’s had to wrench the door off the hinges to pull a victim out of the burning wreckage—but it is the first time that victim has been a werewolf, a _child_ , shaking in terror as his small hands struggle with the seatbelt even as Derek slices through it and pulls him out, forcing his gaze away as his partner pulls a woman out of the driver’s seat.

Standard procedure is to allow the EMTs at the scene to take the kid from him and get him to the hospital. But the boy is clutching him so hard that his nails dig little half-moons into Derek’s shoulders and he wails when Deputy Parrish tries to coax him into the back of the patrol car, sobbing into Derek’s ear until Derek lays them both down on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance and allows his chest to rumble in the way that always soothed Cora when she got worked up. It takes almost an hour for Derek to calm him enough to step away and go back to the truck, hands shaking as he clamps his mouth closed against the bile that’s rising in his throat.

Derek goes home that night smelling like despair and grief, unable to see anything but the desperation on the kid’s face when he closes his eyes. He talks to Cora in the morning, tracks down the social worker in charge of the kid’s placement, and two days later Scott’s standing on his doorstep with a brand-new red backpack over his shoulders.

\---

The first time Derek meets Stiles, he’s—well.

Scott doesn’t express himself. Derek’s had him for a week and a half before he realizes that five year olds are probably supposed to be in school, except neither of the elementary schools in Beacon Hills has a registered Scott McCall. Derek figures his mom chose to keep him home for another year, but the social worker is pushing Derek to enroll him in school so Derek does, walking him down to Beacon Hills Elementary on a Friday afternoon. It’s just after Halloween and the weather is getting colder, so he wraps Scott in more layers than strictly necessary and shows him the way, forcing himself to talk about whatever comes to mind as they walk.

Derek’s pretty sure he’s spoken more in the last week and half than he has the entire year.

“I used to go here when I was a kid,” he says when they round the corner and the school comes into view, low squat buildings that have been there since the 50’s bringing back a wave of memories. “My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Ward and she smelled like hairspray and clove. I hope for your sake that she’s no longer here.”

She’s not. Derek fills out the registration packet while Scott plays Candy Crush in the corner, relaying necessary information to the principal and school counselor while the secretary inputs everything into the computer before directing an older student to escort Derek and Scott to Mr. Stilinski’s classroom. Derek likes the sound of his name—it sounds familiar although he’s not sure why, sounds like someone older, someone who has had experience with werewolves, someone who can yield authority warmly. 

“Mr. Stiles is really cool,” the kid tells Scott, leading them down the corridor and through double doors to the outside. “He’s way better than Ms. Blake, _and_ he gives you the best granola bars if you’re hungry.”

The first time Derek sees Stiles, he’s sitting cross-legged next to a kiddie pool filled with floating plastic fish just outside the door of his classroom, clapping his hands along with the rest of the kids around him as a boy in blue reaches out with a net to scoop one up. There’s a sandbox on the other side of the door that kids are pawing through, nudging each other as they dig up magnetic letters, and through the door Derek can see the rest of the students sprawled across the room reading books.

He almost turns around. This—the noise, the chaos, a teacher that looks like he’s barely graduated college—is not what Scott needs. But Stiles looks up as they approach, Scott clinging tightly to Derek’s hand, and gives them such a warm, wide smile that Derek figures they can hang around for a few minutes just to see how it goes. Derek watches as he pushes one hand against the ground to stand up, trips over nothing, and lands on his knees in the kiddie pool with a splash.

The burst of laughter from his class is instantaneous and after a beat Stiles pops up, shaking his head ruefully, and bows before winking at Derek. “How’d I do?” he asks, looking at the kids around him, and one squints her eyes thoughtfully.

“6.5,” she says. “The splash could have been bigger.”

When Derek looks down, Scott is smiling.

\---

_SOS NOT ENOUGH GRAHAM CRACKERS!!! Whoever brings two boxes first will be graciously excused from the next Creepy Critter Showcase if they so choose._

Derek snorts at the message that comes through the communication app. He’s not entirely sure what the Creepy Critter Showcase is, but it’s the last day of school before winter break and Scott’s been looking forward to making gingerbread houses (at least Derek is pretty sure he’s excited given that he’s carefully drawn several dozen gingerbread houses over the last week) and Derek isn’t going to let him be disappointed.

 _Be there in 30_ , he messages back. 

The classroom is running at its usual level of chaos when Derek walks in, but he’s been here often enough now to see the structure behind it: a different activity at each table, the kids outside practicing writing their letters with wet paint brushes on the concrete walkways, Stiles sprawled out on his stomach on the carpet reading a book about holiday traditions in Italy. He grins the second Derek walks in and jerks his head towards a table laden with candy and frosting, then pats his free hand on the carpet next to him. It’s awkward to sink down on the carpet, pulling his legs criss-cross, and the kids giggle when he does. 

Scott crawls in his lap immediately and Derek pulls him back to his chest, nosing the top of his curls. They stay like that until the book is finished and the kids start lining up for recess; Derek is surprised to see the room clean, certain that there had been scraps of paper everywhere when he’d walked in. Scott hesitates at the doorway until Stiles nods, and Derek watches as he takes a book from the shelf by the door and walks outside, stopping not ten feet away to lean against a tree trunk. 

“He doesn’t play with the other kids?” he asks, looking over at Stiles and frowning. 

“Not yet,” Stiles says, looking out past Derek to Scott. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair and shrugs. “Baby steps, Mr. Hale. He’ll get there eventually.” He tosses a container of cleaning wipes to Derek with a hopeful look and fist pumps when Derek rolls his eyes and opens them up. 

He ends up staying for the rest of the day, portioning out candy onto plates while Stiles demonstrates how to make his gingerbread house, referencing the drawing he’d made beforehand to help him place the candy (this is something Derek doesn’t remember from grade school: graham crackers frosted to empty milk cartons, yes; a blueprint for how to decorate, not so much), helping kids slather frosting from edge-to-edge to get their graham crackers to stick, and doing his best imitation of a paramedic when not just one but three kids poke themselves in the palm with the forks they’re using to spread the frosting.

(There’s no blood, but “bandaids are a cure-all,” Stiles whispers, pointing him in the direction of the first-aid kit. “We don’t fight it here.”)

When all the treats are passed out, houses are structurally sound and Derek is settled at Scott’s table, Stiles slides an extra plate in front of him with a wink, handing Derek a plastic knife and an entire tub of frosting. Derek builds a house right alongside Scott, feeling his heart lighten at the way Scott giggles when the gumdrops Derek had tried to stick to the roof fall off and the candy canes droop to the side. 

(Whatever, Derek majored in fire science for a reason, gingerbread architecture is not his thing.)

They finish up just as the bell rings for dismissal, and Derek starts cleaning up the tables as Stiles somehow gets every kid’s face wiped clean and hands washed before lining them up, paper plates held up proudly.

“And don’t eat the candy on the bus or you’ll get me fired!” Stiles yells out the door as the last student skips out with a cheerful grin, peppermint already clenched between her teeth. “You guys don’t have to stay, I can get this all,” he says to Derek, waving a hand around the classroom.

“Grab your stuff,” Derek directs Scott, sweeping the last of the sprinkles into his palm and dumping them in the trash. He waits as Stiles bends down to hug Scott, whispering something in his ear with an unusually serious look on his face, and takes Scott’s hand as they walk out the door. “Thanks for letting me help,” he says, nodding at Stiles. “Have a good Christmas.”

Stiles’ hand settles on his bicep for just a moment, and Derek thinks he feels the weight of it for the rest of the day. 

At home, Scott arranges their gingerbread houses carefully on the fireplace, eyeing them critically before nodding and leaping on the couch. Derek lifts him into his lap and allows him to curl up, turns on a Christmas movie and rubs his back while they watch. When Cora comes home hours later, flinging her backpack into the hall closet and loudly rejoicing having the next two weeks off from school, she flops on the couch next to them and leans her head against Derek’s shoulder, fingers ruffling Scott’s hair.

“Nice gingerbread house, runt,” she says. “We should make a big one together, what do you think?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, climbing off of Derek and onto Cora’s lap. “Can you do the roof better than Derek?”

It figures, Derek thinks, that the first words out of the kid’s mouth are used to insult him. 

\---

Years later, this is the moment Derek thinks of when he tries to figure out when he fell in love with Stiles:

“Mr. Hale, this is Marjorie at Beacon Hills Elementary, I’m calling about Scott. There was an incident on the playground at recess and he shifted, he’s—”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Derek cuts her off, already jogging down the steps of the station and veering into the locker room. “Theo! I have to go, Scott—”

“Go,” Theo says, waving him off from where he’s polishing the headlights of the truck. “I’ll let Cap know, we’ll be fine without you.”

He doesn’t really register the short drive to the school. Derek had never had to use it, but he remembers the cramped, windowless room they’d stick kids who had trouble controlling their shift in, remembers the screams and growls that would come from it that he could hear from across the school, remembers the smell of fear and shame that seeped into those walls. There’s a rage swelling in his chest at the thought of Scott stuck in there, curled in the corner to hide or throwing himself at the door; by the time he stalks into the office his breath is coming too quick and his hands are fisted tightly at his side.

Principal Deaton is waiting for him; he is grateful that he doesn’t say anything, just beckons Derek to follow him down the hallway. But they don’t take a left down the hallway that Derek knows leads to the room—he takes him outside, rounds the corner of the building, and gestures towards the treeline.

“You left him with a _human_?” There’s no way for him to hide his disbelief—even though he can’t see anything more than Stiles’ shoes, he can _smell_ him there with Scott, and has to concentrate to pick up his steady heartbeat. “Scott could have—”

“Mr. Stilinski insisted,” is all Deaton says before Derek stalks off, half-jogging across the field to reach them.

He expects … well, he’s not sure. Scott’s grief is overwhelming, permeating the air around them, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that it’s coming from Stiles, too, a thin trace of resignation and acceptance acting as a buffer. He can smell blood as he gets closer, but there’s no anxiety or fear coming from Stiles, not from the smell of him or his relaxed posture, starfished out on the ground with Scott, hand resting lightly around Scott’s wrist.

Except for the full moons, Scott hasn’t shifted since he’s been with Derek. The therapist assures Derek that suppressing the shift is just as normal as being out-of-control, but it’s put Derek on edge, kept him waiting for the moment that Scott inevitably lost control. There are tiny claw marks on Stiles’ forearms, perfect round puncture marks from where Scott had grabbed onto him, and that more than anything breaks Derek’s heart.

“You and me can make Valentine’s cards for our moms tomorrow during lunch, if you want,” Stiles says quietly, and Derek slows down as he approaches them, sitting down when Stiles pats the ground with his free hand. “You’ll take him to visit his mom’s grave, won’t you, Mr. Hale?”

“Any time,” Derek says, reaching over and squeezing Scott’s shoulder, running the back of his hand along his cheek.

“He hurt you,” Derek says later, after Scott is calm and settled back in the classroom, busy playing some game that Stiles claims helps with spatial reasoning. Derek’s not sure a werewolf really needs help with that, but Scott looks happy enough. His hand hovers over Stiles’ arm until he gets permission to touch, but there’s hardly any pain to draw and Stiles just glances at him with a look Derek tries not to read too much into. “They told me the counselors here had experience with—”

“They wanted to put him in that room,” Stiles says, scowling. “It wasn’t what he needed.”

He’s not sure _why_ he’s arguing because he’s grateful that Scott wasn’t in there, that Stiles was able to calm him down, but even a five-year old werewolf can be dangerous to a human and it would wreck Scott to hurt someone he cared about. “If he was out of control,” he says, and Stiles cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. 

“Being out of control and not being able to control your emotional reaction are two different things,” Stiles says. “Scott might start having trouble controlling his shift now that he’s processing what happened and putting him in that room will only show him that grief is bad. If he ever truly seems like he’ll hurt someone I’ll consider it, but until then I have no intention of letting anyone take him there.”

Derek blows out the breath that he feels like he may have been holding since he got the phone call and leans back against the wall, watching Scott interact with his classmates. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I’m glad he was with you.”

\---

“I’m just saying that you never volunteered in _my_ classroom twice a week,” Cora says, smirking at him over her geometry book. 

“I can start,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow, and Cora leans away from the table with a horrified look on her face. “Maybe your P.E. teacher could use someone to really make you work out, or—”

“No, no, I’m good,” Cora says quickly, settling her chair back down and flipping the page in her notebook. “But you didn’t deny the whole big fat crush on the runt’s teacher, you know.”

Derek jabs at the pot of rice on the stove, buying himself time. “Scott needs stability,” he says. “It’s good for him if I’m there.”

(Not a lie.)

“Uh huh.”

“He wants me to come every day, twice a week is being conservative,” he adds.

(Not a lie.)

Cora snorts, pencil scratching against her paper as she works out a problem. “Keep telling yourself that.” 

He ignores her in favor of calling Scott down for dinner, busying himself with dishing food onto plates and nudging Cora’s work to the side. He likes volunteering in Scott’s class—surprising, given that it’s barely constrained chaos and Derek’s never done well with that—but he’s progressed from merely supervising free time to prepping materials to running his own reading group (an honor, Stiles assured him) and he finds that the more time he spends around Stiles, the more he craves his energy and teasing sarcasm, the more he finds himself dwelling on how his face lights up when one of his students make a joke, on the way his fingers always tap against whatever surface is available. Derek isn’t denying that he has—in Cora’s words—a big fat crush, he’s just not entirely sure he should act on it. 

“You should ask him out,” Cora adds. “I don’t see it, but my friends say you’re a catch.”

Derek stares at her. “Your friends are fifteen,” he says, and promptly tries to forget she said anything at all. “And he may not be single. Or gay. Why am I talking about this with you?”

“Because you desperately need the help and Laura’s in Estonia. And so what? If he’s not, he’ll say no,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “You’re not asking him to marry you, Der, don’t be so dramatic. Just be like, ‘hey, you wanna go to the art gallery sometime with me? We could get dinner before.’ He’ll probably say yes.”

He snorts, intercepting Scott as he finally clatters down the stairs and pushing him gently towards the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “The art gallery?”

“Sounds like something boring old people would like,” Cora says. “Maybe you can tour retirement homes for your second date.”

\---

He doesn’t wait until the last day of school because he’s chicken (thanks, Cora), he waits because he’s sure that teachers have a lot of work they do outside of school hours and he would feel bad asking Stiles out if it would cause him any stress. And, he reasons, Scott doesn’t need him gone any more than he has to be.

(“How is it possible that you’re worse at dating now than when you were in high school?” Laura asks during their monthly phone call. “Derek, grow a pair.”)

He drops in an hour before the bell rings with bubbles and sticks around afterwards, helping Stiles push all the furniture in the room into one corner while Scott carefully packs books away and shows off by lifting the heavy boxes. Stiles’ face is flushed from the heat, an early summer heat wave rolling over Beacon Hills, and Derek catches how his heart skips each time Stiles looks at him, notices how he tends to worry his lower lip frequently before darting out his tongue to soothe it.

“Any summer plans?” he asks once Scott is finished and is entertaining himself outside the door with the last pack of sidewalk chalk that had been lying on the counter. He’d spent some time trying to come up with a good date idea—he’ll never admit to Cora that he’d seriously considered the art museum before dismissing it as too serious, but he’d run across a movie series with screenings being held in one of the clearings in the preserve and it sounded like something Stiles would appreciate. 

“Yeah, actually, I’m spending the summer in London, my best friend moved there a few years ago and I haven’t had a chance to visit him yet. He’s already mocking me for wanting to do the tourist thing but I know for a fact he never did any of that when he moved there and he’s going to like it even if he does spend the whole time complaining that I’m dragging him along. What about you guys?”

Derek shrugs, trying to ignore the way his heart sinks. “Nothing much. Cora’s going to be a junior counselor at camp this year, and I’m sure Scott’s told you that he’s trying it out for a week in July. He said he’s never been to a baseball game before so we’ll probably spend a few days in San Francisco or something.” Suddenly, he’s not looking forward to the house being empty for even a day, let alone a week.

It’s fine. He’ll just ask him out when Stiles gets back.

\--

Erica comes to him mid-way through July. He says yes initially because there are precious few places to foster young werewolves and he thinks he’s doing an okay job with Scott, who is thrilled with the idea of having two sisters. Unlike Scott, however, Erica is an angry child, shifting uncontrollably for the first few weeks and spending most of her time wrecking his house with a defiant look on her face, and Derek subsequently spends most of _his_ time trying to haul her off Cora—who may or may not be deliberately provoking her.

“You’re not helping,” he snaps at his sister for the third time that week, lifting Erica easily into his arms as she claws at Cora. “Take Scott to the library, you can come back after lunch.”

Cora doesn’t even bother looking up. “No.”

“It wasn’t a request,” he says tightly, growling, and she huffs out a sigh and rolls her eyes but finally stands up and leaves the room, hollering for Scott. He holds onto Erica for a moment longer, until he hears Scott’s light footsteps race down the hall and out the front door, gate slamming closed behind them a few seconds later. 

He has absolutely no clue what he got himself into with this one, and he doesn’t have anyone to ask for advice; his parents are dead, Laura had willingly handed him alpha duties and fled the country rather than deal with anything, and none of Derek’s coworkers have kids. Hell, the only person he knows with kids is himself and the only way he’s managed so far is because Scott is the world’s sweetest child and Stiles—

He digs his phone out of his pocket and thumbs open the communication app with Erica still over his shoulder, claws digging into his lower back. _Not sure if you’ll get this but I got another kid placed with me and we’re struggling_ he texts, and sends it before he can talk himself out of it. He’s not even sure if it’ll work now that the school year is over but his only other option is Isabella, Erica’s social worker, and the last thing he needs is her realizing he has no clue what to do while he’s in the middle of adopting Scott.

By the time his phone rings that afternoon with an unknown number, Derek has spent three hours running Erica ragged in the preserve until she passed out in his arms on the way back home, and his nerves are shot from listening to her hysterical crying. 

“I hope it’s okay to call, it’s not school business but if you’d rather stick to written communication we can go back to messaging, I just figured this would be easier,” Stiles says as soon as Derek answers, and he feels some of the tension in his chest give way at the sound of his voice. 

“It’s fine,” he says quietly, sparing a glance at Erica before slipping out of her room and closing the door carefully. “How’s London?”

“Good, but tell me what’s going on over there first. Is Scott okay?”

He can hear the worry in Stiles’ voice as he slumps down on the couch, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, Scott’s fine. He’s trying to help, you know him, I just—I’m not sure what to do.”

There’s a moment of silence and Stiles says, “I don’t know how helpful I’ll be without any information, Derek—uh, Mr. Hale, sorry—”

“Derek’s good,” he says. He should have probably asked Stiles to stick to texting, because Derek’s never been great at talking, especially about personal issues. He sucks in a breath and reminds himself that it’s not a weakness to ask for help, and that packs take care of each other. Not that Stiles is pack, but his is currently extremely small, with one living … well, he’s not sure he remembers where Laura is right now, and Cora’s a teenager and less than helpful most of the time. 

“Alright, but no more ‘Mr. Stilinski’,” Stiles says. “It makes me think of my grandpa.”

“Not your dad?”

“Not unless you want to start calling me Sheriff,” Stiles says. “So what’s up, Derek?”

He blows out a breath through his nose. “I got a new kid placed with me a few weeks ago,” he says. “She just turned five so I thought it’d be fine because I’ve had Scott for awhile now, but she can’t control herself. She rages and trashes the house and short of locking her in her room or making her run until she passes out, I don’t know what to do.”

“Probably not options her social worker wants to hear,” Stiles says warily. “Did they set her up with grief counseling?”

“She’s not—her parents aren’t dead,” Derek says. “Erica had a severe seizure disorder and her parents paid someone to give her the bite. Then they got pregnant and decided it was too dangerous to have her near the baby, so they—” his claws bite into his palms and he stops, breathing against the wave of rage he feels.

For a moment, all Derek can hear is the sound of Stiles’ uneven breathing on the other end of the line before “what the _fuck_ ,” explodes from his mouth and he inhales sharply. “Are you her first placement?”

“Fourth,” Derek says, and Stiles curses softly. “She’s been bouncing around the system for a few months. She rejected the pack they set her up with at first, ran away twice—”

“She’s _five_ ,” Stiles says, sounding appalled. “It’s good that she’s with you. Look, let me do some research, okay? Kids are mostly about stability and consistency but despite my best friend being a werewolf I don’t know a whole lot about the development and I’d hate to give you bad advice.”

“Your best friend is a werewolf? The one you’re with now?” He’s not sure why it makes him uneasy—it makes sense when he thinks about it, how comfortable Stiles was with Scott when he shifted, how easily he accepted a werewolf in his class. 

“Yeah, he got bit by a rogue alpha in high school,” Stiles says. “I think you probably know him, Jackson Whittemore? Your mom offered—”

“He turned her down,” Derek says, frowning. He’d just left for college at the time and distinctly remembers thinking that of course the first exciting thing to happen in Beacon Hills happened the second he left town. His parents had dealt with the alpha and the kid didn’t want to join the pack, though, so he hadn’t given it a second thought. 

“She still helped him,” Stiles says, “which was good because my idea of helping was handcuffing him to a radiator on the first full moon. It uh, didn’t work out. Your mom was waiting across the street to intercept him because she was smart enough not to listen to a teenager. He’s gotten a lot better since then—I think he regrets it sometimes, not joining your pack. We have our own little one, though, if a werewolf, banshee, and human that live thousands of miles away from each other counts as a pack.”

Derek cringes. “It’s non-traditional,” he says, because he doesn’t want to be an asshole (to Stiles. On purpose. He has no issues being an asshole in general), “but if it works for you guys, then it works.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, sounding distracted, and then, “hey, have you registered her for school yet?”

\---

Stiles sends him articles, screenshots of articles, lists of books—so many books—and gradually, Erica mellows. She’s still headstrong and sassy, still prone to sudden shifts and throwing things against the wall, but the daily messages Stiles sends him about her school day stops including a list of things she’d broken in one of her rages by the end of September. He still volunteers, spending Tuesdays in Scott’s classroom and Wednesdays in Erica’s, and they’re happy. Cora’s got her driver’s license and a taste of freedom, the adoption process is going smoothly with Scott, and Erica has started asking to go on runs when anger sparks under her skin instead of putting her fist through a wall. And Derek—

Well, Derek’s happy if the kids are happy. It doesn’t—it _shouldn’t_ —matter if Stiles is less … enthusiastic than he was last year, if the banter that bordered on flirting stopped, if his heartbeat stays steady and the thread of desire that runs through his scent is missing. Derek’s never been great at relationships anyway, and it’s probably good that he never managed to ask Stiles out, because he likely would have fucked it up. Stiles would have lost interest in him anyway and then Derek would have gotten his heart broken because he’s never learned to do things by halves—the three kids living in his house are proof enough of that.

So it’s good. He’s fine. He focuses more on the kids when he’s in Erica’s classroom like he should be doing anyway, only responds to updates about her with a quick _thanks_ , and resolutely ignores the picture of Stiles and Scott that’s been stuck to his refrigerator for nearly a year. 

He’s fine.

“You’re an idiot,” Cora says one night after Scott and Erica are in bed. She’s got her head in his lap, legs draped over the arm of the couch, and she looks unimpressed. “You had plenty of chances to ask him out, you didn’t, he’s probably dating someone else now.”

He resists the childish urge to tell her that Stiles doesn’t smell like he’s dating anyone else and instead looks straight ahead at the television. He doesn’t think he was like this at sixteen, sure he knew everything and that he was superior to everyone—that came later, in college, and Derek refuses to think about those years of his life. “Okay,” he says, because anything else he would say would be a lie and Cora doesn’t need any more ammunition than she already has.

She huffs loudly. “Fine, be miserable and alone,” she says, and he scowls.

“You sound like Laura,” he says, because if there’s one thing Cora hates, it’s to be compared to her older sister.

\---

Unfortunately, his crush on Stiles doesn’t go away. It turns into yearning, fades from the desire to fuck him against a wall into domestic dreams of cooking breakfast together in the kitchen, chasing kids around the yard while they’re supposed to be raking up leaves, spending nights reading and playing board games with the kids. The Stiles in his mind weaves himself seamlessly into every holiday, into every family event, lighting their lives and bringing such happiness that it’s almost painful to see him at school, smiling with the kids and being nothing short of professional with Derek.

He doesn’t even know what he did to make everything change, a thought that unfortunately slips out while he’s on the phone with Laura, watching Scott and Erica tear around the backyard, slipping the in the mud that the spring rain showers have brought.

Laura’s snort of laughter in his ear brings his attention back. “You’re twenty-seven with three kids,” she says; he can almost hear her roll her eyes. “Sorry Der, but not a lot of twenty-somethings are going to want to jump into that mess.”

The weight on his chest feels a little heavier at her words. “Scott’s the only one that’s actually mine,” he says. “Cora’s counting down the days until she leaves.”

“Uh huh. Go ahead and tell me you’re not considering adopting Erica,” Laura says. “I don’t need to hear your heartbeat to know you’d be lying. You’re a marshmallow, you were probably drawing up adoption papers in your head as soon as you heard her parents wanted to give up their rights.”

He doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure there’s anything to say at all. 

\---

The worst part is—there are still sparks, sometimes: Derek will say something to one of the students and Stiles will at look at him like he used to, a flash of amusement and fondness in his eyes; a sharp sting of desire when he picks the kids up late one day, still dressed in his uniform and straight off of shift spent hauling a group of hikers out of a ravine; an erratic heartbeat when they run into each other at the grocery store and Scott flings himself at Stiles while Erica clambers in and out of the cart and dances to only music she can hear in the middle of the aisle.

And there’s the night Stiles helps him out at the county fair, keeping a hold on Scott as Derek deals with his own headache from the assault of noise and smells while trying to soothe Erica, and Derek finds that the longer Stiles stays with them, the calmer _he_ is. Scott falls asleep that night smelling like Stiles, and Derek holds him on his lap longer than he cares to admit, breathing it in. 

And every time it happens, every time he feels that spark—Derek feels like he’s right back at the start.

\---

He only hesitates for a moment before he says yes to Boyd. 

It’s early June and Cora’s bugging him daily about going to visit college campuses, texting him list after revised list of places she’s considering. Scott’s spending all his free time memorizing sight words because Derek promised to buy him a new video game if he finished the list by the last day of school, and Erica had burst into tears two days prior because she didn’t want kindergarten to be over—a far cry from her first day, when she threatened to burn down the school and run away.

Isabella calls him just as he’s heading to the grocery store and tells him there’s a werewolf in the hospital, found the night before in the woods a few towns over. “He doesn’t know the names of his parents,” she says doubtfully. “And—well, he says the fairies raised him.”

“Fae,” Derek corrects absentmindedly. It wouldn’t surprise him, truly; he knows what they’re capable of. “No scent to track?”

“We have some people working on it so hopefully his parents are found soon. This could just be short term if you’re not interested—”

“I don’t mind,” he says. If Laura’s so sure he won’t find anyone interested in him with three kids, he doesn’t see how taking on a fourth could possibly hurt. “Let me talk to the kids first. I’ll call you back.”

Scott bursts into tears at the thought of a brother. Erica scowls and stomps upstairs, but there’s a brand-new _no boys allowed_ sign on her door five minutes later and Derek takes that as acceptance. Cora just rolls her eyes, then straightens up with a gleam in her eyes and says, “I’ll need a bigger car to drive them all around in,” and Derek sighs and calls Isabella back.

\---

Stiles is in the office when Derek walks in a few days later, Erica and Scott playing tag in the hallways while he leans against the counter and asks for a registration packet. 

“Another one?” Marjorie asks, plucking a stapled pack of papers from a drawer and sliding it across the counter to him. “You’ve got your hands full with those two already—and I remember Miss Hale, of course. Doubt she got any easier to deal with as a teenager. You’ll work yourself into an early grave running after all these kids.”

Stiles is staring at him. “Wait, seriously? What is this, the Hale House for Wayward Werewolves? Please tell me this one isn’t coming into kindergarten.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. There’s a sudden fog of frustration around Stiles, a resignation that makes Derek feel irritated. “He doesn’t have to be in your class if you don’t want to deal with us anymore,” he says, frowning at the papers in front of him and flexing his hand around the pen so he doesn’t snap it in half.

Majorie’s laughter startles him. “Oh, that’s not the problem, is it Mr. Stilinski?” Stiles glares at her and disappears through one of the doors, letting it slam behind him. “Don’t mind him,” Marjorie says, waving her hand through the air. “He’ll be the first one protesting if your little one isn’t placed with him.”

He can’t work it out, though—Stiles loves Scott and Erica. Stiles loves his entire class, Derek doesn’t have to smell the affection coming from him to know that, he can see it in everything Stiles does. “Boyd is a lot more like Scott,” he offers, because maybe it’s the idea of having another Erica that frustrates him; Derek knows she was a lot of work, but—

“Honey,” Marjorie says, smiling, “I know you’re smarter than that. You know what this is about.”

Derek, it turns out, is not smarter than that—but Cora is.

“Oh my God you _idiot,_ ” she says later that night, and Derek readies his _should you really talk to your alpha like that_ speech, “he—”

“He _what_ ,” Derek grinds out after a moment. He’ll miss her—maybe—but college can’t come soon enough.

Cora looks irritatingly smug. “I’ll tell you if we can put Boston back on the list.” He levels a look at her, and she must know he’s going to give in because she crinkles her eyes up at him and grins. “I bet he wants to date you.”

Derek stares at her. “He could just ask,” he says. 

“Probably can’t if your kid is in his class,” Cora says, shrugging. “Melody’s dad asked Ms. Price out at the school carnival and she said she couldn’t date one of her student’s parents. I bet he has the same rules, and now you’re shoving another one with him for the third year in a row.”

“I—” he starts, and falls silent. “He doesn’t seem interested anymore,” he says instead. Jesus, there’s something wrong with him, needing dating advice from his seventeen year old sister. 

She shrugs. “He’s best friends with a werewolf. He’s probably picked up some tricks; Mom never knew when I was lying. Just ask him out, Derek. You’re supposed to be an alpha, this is just pathetic.”

\---

He doesn’t get a chance; Stiles corners him on the last day off school, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot for a moment before straightening Erica’s _last day of school_ crown and sending her and Scott out the door with hula hoops and two scooters that he dug out of a cabinet. “I owe you an apology,” he says as soon as they’re distracted.

“It’s fine,” Derek says. He glances around at the room and motions to the tables. “You want help again?” Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head; Derek ignores him. It’s hard to believe that a year ago he was getting ready to ask him on a date, and he just keeps digging in deeper even though it seems like Stiles can barely look at him.

“Derek,” Stiles says; there’s an air of exasperation in his voice but all Derek feels is the fondness rolling off of him, the—. He clenches his fingers around the metal table legs and breathes in deep, both to calm himself and to take in the scent of yearning again, a stupid, desperate hope taking root in his chest. “I shouldn’t have—it’s a good thing, what you’re doing. The kids love you, and their safety—it won’t happen again,” he says finally. “I’ll deal with my frustration better. I hope you’ll be okay with me taking Boyd next year.”

He flips another table over and stacks it before turning around and leaning back against it, curling his fingers around the edge. “Why were you frustrated?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow before making a face. “Derek, come on. You have to know.”

He shrugs. “Humor me,” he says, because he can’t admit that he really can’t read people with shit and Stiles has been confusing him for the last year.

Foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor, Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and says, “I can’t ask you on a date if your kid is in my class, but I’m also not letting them go with Jennifer, so I’m a little stuck. And please don’t act like you didn’t know I’ve been interested because I’ve been trying but I’m not that great at hiding these things.”

“You’re better than you think you are,” Derek says, pushing off the table. “I don’t have a kid in your class until September, you know.”

“As much as I like your blatant disregard for professional boundaries and your creative problem solving, Deaton won’t let Boyd be placed in here if he finds out,” Stiles says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “We could be friends, though. You know we’ve technically known each other since high school.”

He’d figured as much—there was only one high school in Beacon Hills and he’d been vaguely aware that the Sheriff’s kid had been a freshman when he was a senior given the amount of complaints about parties being broken up early. “Friends could be good,” he says. “I’m taking the kids to the music in the park thing this weekend. If you were thinking about going—”

“Oh, absolutely,” Stiles says, grinning. “I’ll see you there.”

\---

Stiles _was_ better at hiding his feelings than Derek even realized, because now he’s not trying at all and it’s driving Derek crazy the longer summer stretches on. Stiles manages to be nothing more than friendly on the surface, chasing the kids around the preserve when they come across him while on a run, helping Derek pick books out at the library, chatting animatedly across the table at the coffee shop once a week while Cora watches the kids at the playground across the street. But his emotions are so strong that Derek can almost feel them stretching out and crawling across his skin, desire and affection seeping into his bones whenever Stiles looks at him. It sets him on edge in a different way, itching to reach out and take what he wants, what he _needs_. It’s a bizarre game he plays with himself, trying to stay at arms length until he can’t anymore, which usually ends with him doing something embarrassing like rubbing his cheek up against Stiles’ as they say goodbye or smelling the air a little _too_ obviously. 

It leaves Stiles pink-cheeked and pleased, though, so his embarrassment doesn’t last too long. 

With three kids in grade school it gets harder to volunteer in their classrooms once the year starts up again; he splits one day between Scott and Erica and spends an entire day with Boyd, telling himself and everyone who will listen that it’s because Boyd is the youngest and the one who needs him around the most and absolutely not because he goes home smelling like Stiles after spending the day brushing up against him … accidentally, of course.

(Boyd doesn’t throw himself in Derek’s lap nearly as much as Scott did—does—to Derek’s dismay. Scott always came home smelling of Stiles, and never minded if Derek held onto him for a little too long.)

Through it all, Stiles keeps their weekly coffee not-dates, coaxing Derek into telling stories about his family and time at college, freely talking about everything he and Jackson got up to in high school and bugging Derek with all his most pressing questions about supernatural creatures; Derek has to admit that he doesn’t actually know most of the answers. He has books, though, still packed away in the boxes he’d dragged out of his parents house after they died and the first time he brings one along, Stiles’ excitement is palpable. He’s quiet the weekend after Christmas break begins though, smelling like apprehension and quiet indecision, and Derek finds himself unaccountably nervous and preparing for the worst. 

“I’m going to D.C. tomorrow,” Stiles says suddenly after several minutes of rambling about the new Superman movie. “So—I won’t see you for awhile. It’s a last minute thing, Jackson’s heading there for work and he doesn’t want to spend Christmas by himself and my dad’s working so I’m going.”

“Okay,” Derek says slowly, watching Stiles’ cheeks flush across the table. “That’s why you’re nervous?”

Stiles scowls at him. “The lack of privacy is _not_ appreciated,” he says, and yanks off his hoodie. “Here. Merry Christmas.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You’re giving me—”

“Loaning you,” Stiles corrects. 

“You’re _loaning_ me a used hoodie for Christmas,” Derek says. “And Cora says I’m not good with people.”

Stiles’ cheeks turn a deeper pink, patchwork marks appearing down his neck, but he tilts his chin up and says, “fine, give it back. You can just go without smelling me like a creep for two weeks.” Derek’s fingers tighten around the soft fabric and he—growls, just a little, maybe, but Stiles breaks out into a smile at the noise. “That’s what I thought,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Just send it with Boyd when school starts again, it’s my favorite.”

“Sure,” Derek says, though he has no intention to give it back until Stiles can come to his house and get it for himself. If he sleeps with it every night until the smell fades, that’s nobody’s business but his. 

\---

“Berkeley is a good school,” Cora says, staring at the acceptance letters that are piled on the table in front of her. “It would be easy to come back, I could drive up on the weekends.”

Derek wants to agree. He keeps his mouth closed against the words, biting his tongue so he doesn’t tell her to stay. She’s been talking about college on the east coast for the last year and a half and Derek knows that she’s only reconsidering for his benefit. “Georgetown is better,” he says, pushing the packet with the navy blue and grey seal towards her. “And you were really pushing Boston College last year. We didn’t even visit Berkeley, Cora. Pick somewhere you actually want to go, not just the closest to home.”

She worries at her bottom lip and sighs. “I don’t know how you’ll manage without me,” she says, trying to sound haughty and failing. 

He shrugs. “I’ll just have to find another teenager to ignore the kids so they can play on their phone.”

She pushes away from the table with a sigh and wanders into the living room, flopping over the arm of the couch and covering her eyes with her arm. “What if I miss you too much?”

“Doubtful,” Derek says, and she laughs. 

“I might miss the kids,” she says after a moment. “Scott, probably. Scott will miss me! I can’t leave, you know—”

“I hear there’s this thing called FaceTime,” he says, just as his phone rings, and he looks over at her. “Hold on, I’ve got this conference for Boyd, just—hold on.”

He only half-listens to Stiles, too busy thinking about Cora and how to help her; he remembers being seventeen and nervous to leave home, leave his pack for the first time. He knows she’ll be fine—Cora’s always been the most outgoing of all of them, the one that made friends the easiest—but Derek had the benefit of a full pack when he left, and for the first time he’s realizing that he’s really all Cora has. Laura hasn’t set foot in Beacon Hills since their parents died and Derek never bothered to keep in contact with any of the surrounding packs because he’d never entertained the idea of being the alpha until Laura rejected it. He’s so lost in thought that hearing _I’ll let you go_ through the phone line after a long pause startles him and he says, “yeah, love you, bye,” without thinking.

Cora’s head snaps up so fast that Derek swears he hears her bones crack.

He sighs. “Well, you know we do,” he says, and his cheeks heat up immediately. “I mean—the kids, you know—”

Stiles is laughing on the other end of the line. “I love you guys, too,” he says. “The kids, of course. Not just your grumpy face.”

“Shut up,” Derek mutters. “Cora heard this whole thing, you know, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” At least it broke Cora out of her mood, he thinks, because she’s staring at him like Christmas came early. He hangs up the phone and sits on the couch, lifting up his arm when she pushes herself closer and rests her head on his thigh. “If you go to the east coast, I can talk to Isabella and see if there’s any way for Boyd’s case to be transferred. Erica’s adoption should be finalized by the time school starts.”

“And leave your boyfriend behind?” Cora says, grinning up at him. “He’d kill you, Derek. You know he turned down a date with Allison Argent a few weeks ago? For _you_. I know, I don’t get it either, but seriously, I think he might kill you if you told him you were moving.”

Derek decides that discretion is the better part of valor and ignores her. “He’s not family,” he says, ignoring the very insistent part of him that _wants_ him to be. “I’m not going to prioritize him over you.”

“He’s pack,” Cora says, and rolls her eyes at his sound of protest. “Of course he is, Derek, he takes care of your kids and he puts up with you, how could he not be? I don’t need you guys moving with me, I promise, I just don’t know if I want to be so far away.”

“You’ve got a few weeks to decide,” he says. 

She hums, pulling his hand to her cheek. “Great. Now let’s talk about this declaration of love you just dropped like it was nothing.” 

\---

Isabella calls him about Isaac just before Memorial Day, ten minutes before Derek’s supposed to meet Stiles at the coffee shop. He panics and calls Laura, who laughs at him for a solid two minutes and then tells him to kiss his chances goodbye, because only a saint would want to deal with Derek and four kids under the age of eight, and she’s fairly certain that the Sheriff’s kid is no saint.

He calls Isabella back and says yes anyway, and wonders if it’s too late to cancel Cora’s dorm registration and just buy a house for all of them in Boston. He orders their coffee and finds an open table, trying to tell himself that it doesn’t matter, that he’ll be fine even if he doesn’t have Stiles in his life, that he survived the awkward year when he was Erica’s teacher and he can just stop volunteering and make it easier for everyone involved. It must show on his face though, because Stiles asks him what’s wrong as soon as he sits down, frowning.

“I’m getting another kid,” he says. He doesn’t look at Stiles, but he can feel it again, an overwhelming sense of resignation and sadness before—nothing. He looks up at him and blinks. “How do you do that?”

“Control,” Stiles says, but it’s still obvious in his posture, the way he slumps down in his chair. “I think I should probably go. Tell Marjorie to put them with me when you go in to register.”

“He’s Scott’s age,” Derek says. “None of mine to worry about next year. It should be a werewolf-free year for you.”

Stiles furrows his brow, opens his mouth, and closes it again. “I’m confused,” he says after a moment. “Why is this an issue? You know that no one would think any less of you if you said no, right? Four kids is a lot even if they’re not werewolves and if you think it’s too much, I’m sure they can find a different placement for him.”

“I don’t want them to find him a different placement,” Derek says, and adds, “but like you said—four kids was a lot. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just—I was looking forward to you not being my kid’s teacher.”

“And I’m still not going to be?” Stiles says. He sounds playful, though, and Derek tries not to let himself get his hopes up. “Four kids is a lot for most people, Derek, but I have twenty-three of them in my class. Four is nothing.” He leans forward and grabs Derek’s hand, squeezing. “When do you get him?”

“Tuesday,” he says. “He’s in Colorado right now, Isabella’s going out to get him.”

Stiles nods. “Great. Make Cora cancel her plans and babysit tonight, we’re going out.”

“School’s not out yet,” he says. “What happened to not dating while Boyd was in your class?”

“There are two weeks left,” Stiles says, scoffing. “What’s Deaton going to do, fire me? It’s fine. You know you’re not going to want to get a babysitter until your new one is settled and I’ve thought about having sex with you for way too long to have to wait another few months.”

\---

“Stiles can share my room,” Scott says, looking up at Derek with wide, hopeful eyes. 

“He doesn’t need to share your room, runt,” Cora laughs, messing his hair as she passes by. “He’s sharing with your dad, remember?”

Scott looks like he did, in fact, remember, but had been hoping that no one else did. “But you hog the bed,” he says to Derek, frowning. “Stiles can share my room and we can get bunk beds!”

“As awesome as that sounds,” Stiles says, one hand wrapped around the frame as he leans his body through the doorway, “I think I’m going to stick with your dad, buddy. I heard there were some super strong werewolves that would help me move, though. Anyone know where I can find them?” The kids scramble for the doorway, Scott and Erica elbowing each other as they run, and Derek watches as Stiles leaps out of the way with a yelp. “Claws away!” he yells as they go tumbling down the front steps, cringing. “I know they heal quickly but I always panic,” he adds, swinging into the house and straight into Derek. “Hi,” he says.

Derek reaches out and cups his cheek when Stiles leans in to kiss him, holding him in place. “Hi,” he says, lips brushing against Stiles’. “Second thoughts?”

There’s a crash outside and Stiles flinches against him. “Yeah, actually, definitely regretting telling them to help me move the boxes in. Pretty sure that was my X-Box.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Derek says, kissing him again. “Cora offered to babysit tonight so we could go out one more time before school starts.”

“Scott’s gonna riot,” Stiles says, stepping back. “He’s got plans for us. Something about pizza and a Harry Potter marathon.”

“He has the next ten years for that,” Derek says. “You’re mine tonight.”

Stiles beams at him. “I’m yours every night, big guy. Come on, let’s go help the kids.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me/prompt me at [tumblr](http://elisela.tumblr.com). Here's the [rebloggable tumblr link](https://elisela.tumblr.com/post/635985330734022656/the-hale-house-for-wayward-werewolves-elisela) if you like!


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